A Very Merry Christmas Indeed
by Pipergirl17
Summary: When a rare snowstorm hits London, Molly is the only one to make it to the Christmas party at Baker Street. Finding themselves alone, she and Sherlock must confront the events at Sherrinford. Standing up for herself, Molly finally learns that Sherlock truly meant what he said over the phone; with this out of the way, what's next for them?


Molly Hooper stood in the lobby of St. Bart's Hospital, fumbling with the armload of bags she held. A constant stream of couriers, paramedics, patients and their families rushed by her, either arriving for or leaving from whatever business brought them to the hospital. She moved to the side, pressing herself close to the wall, trying to stay out of everyone's way. "They're in here _somewhere_ ," she groused, digging through her purse for the hat and mitts she'd grabbed that morning on the off chance the meteorologists were correct.

Depending on the source, the forecast had been anywhere from 5 centimetres to 10 centimetres of snow and, based on the scene facing her through the lobby windows, it looked like 10 centimetres - or more - was most likely. Fat snowflakes tumbled down, swirling and dancing on gusts of wind like a scene taken straight off a Christmas cookie tin. On the ground, though, they were accumulating into a slushy mess that was already slowing down pedestrians and snarling traffic.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, spotting the fuzzy pink hat and mitten set underneath her wallet, phone and a couple of cloth shopping bags she always had on hand 'just in case'. She managed to extract them and put them on without dropping any bags - a small miracle after the difficult day she'd experienced.

It had been a day of setback after setback, starting with an alarm clock that had never gone off, leaving her with twenty minutes to shower, get dressed and grab a stale chocolate chip muffin for breakfast. She'd then stood on the platform at her Tube stop, distracted by emails and Facebook, before noticing that ten minutes had gone by without a train. She'd asked the man standing beside her - _first day on the job, judging by the crispness of his suit, too much cologne, fresh haircut, and ohmygod Sherlock's rubbing off on me_ \- who'd confirmed that some prankster at an earlier stop had pulled the emergency alarm. "Hope they catch the bastard," the young man grumbled. "I can't afford to be late on my first morning."

The worst had come just after lunch, with the assignment of a tragic case that had left her more emotionally drained than any other assignment in her career. Not even helping Sherlock feign his own death had left her so shaken.

As a result Molly just wanted to go home, throw on some comfortable clothing, drink a whole bottle of Riesling - straight from the bottle - and forget the day had ever happened. As far as she was concerned, she could live quite happily pretending there hadn't ever been a December 24th.

Instead she stepped outside into the cold, sinking to her ankles in snow, hoping to catch a taxi that would take her to 221B Baker Street. A cab with an unlit 'Taxi' sign stopped in front of her, the driver motioning her in. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Molly slipped into the back seat, shaking the snow from her skirt. "Sorry," she told the driver, "but your light is off, so I didn't know you were taking fares."

The driver smiled at her through the rear view mirror but didn't say anything so Molly just smiled back and gave him the address, noting as she did that he'd already taken off in the right direction. Her brain too fried to read much into it, she leaned back against the seat and watched the city as it passed by her window. The snow still fell with a vengeance, and commuters were scrambling along congested roads and sidewalks. Although a snowfall wasn't unusual on the outskirts of London, a heavy downfall in the centre of town hadn't happened in decades - as a result, neither the city nor its inhabitants were prepared to deal with it.

Despite the beauty surrounding her, Molly was unable to shake the dark mood that clung to her. She tried to focus on pleasant thoughts - the excitement of snow on Christmas Eve, the four-day vacation stretching before her, spending time with close friends - but the memory of four small bodies, taken out one by one onto her table, persisted. She'd put on a brave face, but Mike had seen through her charade and had sent her home early. "I don't want to hear it," he'd responded kindly but firmly to her insistence that she could see the job through. "I'd send _myself_ home if I had to examine four tots on Christmas Eve. We'll manage just fine on our own from here - you go on, now."

She sighed, not knowing what to expect when she got to Baker Street. Her relationship with Sherlock had been awkward since _the_ phone call, neither of them willing to do the adult thing and sit down to discuss it.

About a week after the events unfolded John had asked her to lunch, saying he wanted to discuss something important.

"Look, I wanted to talk to you in person," he began, his mouth pressed into a fine line, his eyes cast downward at his cup of coffee. He'd looked tired, but then again after everything that had happened since Mary's shooting he always looked tired.

Curious - and more than a bit apprehensive - Molly nodded, encouraging him to continue. Whatever it was, she knew it would have to do with Sherlock. These past few months _everything_ had to do with Sherlock.

"What happened last Thursday, the phone call - you deserve an explanation…"

Molly's reaction to his words was immediate and visceral. Her heart began to thump wildly in her chest, she felt her cheeks burning, her muscles tighten in a limbic system-led fight-or-flight response. "How do you know about that?" she demanded, tears of shame pooling in her eyes.

"I was there," he admitted, "and so was Mycroft."

Lead settled in the pit of her stomach at the knowledge that her humiliation hadn't been private. "Was it some sort of joke?" she asked, her voice breaking. "'Let's see if we can finally get poor, sad Molly to say it outright?"

His head shot up. "No, nothing like that, Molly. Christ, you've got to believe me on this one - none of us knew anything about it until just before the call took place." The hand holding his cup began to shake, the ceramic clinking against its saucer. "We didn't know what was going to happen from one moment to the next, or if any of us were even going to make it out alive. Some of us almost didn't..."

He fell silent, placing both hands on his thighs, flexing his fingers, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself, a technique Molly had seen him use a few times before.

Her anger deflated at his last words. Greg had come to her flat that night with a team of agents who'd spent a few hours turning each room inside out in search of explosives and hidden cameras. The DI couldn't give her specifics, but he'd shared the very basics: Sherlock had a sister, and he, John and Mycroft had suffered a harrowing experience at her hands but were still all in one piece.

"So it's true, then? Sherlock really has a sister?" Molly asked quietly. She thought back to when she'd sat with Greg in his car passing a bag of crisps back and forth, trying to imagine a female Holmes sibling. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to come up with anything other than Sherlock in drag - a disturbing thought on its own.

John let out a humourless chuckle. "Yep. And she makes Sherlock and Mycroft look like a pair of loveable morons."

Molly shelved the question of how anyone could make Mycroft Holmes look like a 'loveable moron' for a more basic question. "But why hasn't Sherlock ever mentioned her before? You'd think she would have come up in conversation at some point."

"Because Eurus Holmes is a scary, scary person. When they were kids, she killed Sherlock's best friend and set fire to their house. After that she was taken away to an institution and he erased all memory of her." Quieter, almost to himself, he added "Wish I could do the same."

"Oh my god," Molly whispered, covering her mouth. "That's horrific!"

"Horrific? Yeah, that pretty much describes her. While she held us prisoner she made us go through a series of exercises, and at each one people died. She killed indiscriminately, with no emotion, no remorse - she's like a robot, for God's sake." He paused to take a deep breath, dragging his hand over his face. "And then we walked into a room with a casket and Sherlock had to deduce who it was for…"

"It was for me…" Molly whispered, suddenly very much afraid of this woman in whose hands her life had unknowingly rested.

"Yes. She told us your flat was rigged with explosives, that she'd set them off if Sherlock didn't get you to say those three words. Molly, she'd killed everyone so far no matter whether or not we'd got things right - you can't imagine the pressure Sherlock was under. Doing that to you…" He paused, his eyes focused elsewhere as if watching a memory unfold. "...it almost broke him."

John hadn't said more than that, and Molly hadn't pressed despite her desire to know. And she'd never drummed up the courage to talk to Sherlock about it either, the phone call becoming the elephant in the room each time they were together. She missed the easy friendship they'd developed, where she no longer stammered and there weren't any awkward silences between them.

A chime brought her focus back to the present. Pulling one mitten off, she dug through her purse and pulled her phone out, seeing a new text from Greg.

 _Sorry but we're not going to make it to the party tonight - can't even get out of my street. If you can let everyone know and wish them a happy Christmas. - G_

She tugged her remaining mitten off with her teeth and typed a reply.

 _No worries. I'll let them know. Snow is crazy but exciting - can't believe we're getting a white Christmas! Happy Christmas to you and Susan. - Molls_

Just as she finished typing, the taxi stopped and the driver announced they'd arrived at their destination. Molly pulled her wallet out and leaned forward to read the fare; she frowned when she saw it read 0.00.

"Excuse me," she called through the holes in the dividing plexiglass. "How much do I owe you? The metre is blank."

"No need. It's already been covered," the man replied in heavily accented English.

"What? How?"

"Mr. Holmes, Miss Hooper. He requested I pick you up when you walked out of St. Bart's. You see, I grew up in Oslo." He laughed, shaking his head. "This? This is _not_ snow."

Despite the twenty questions circling around her head - none of which the cabbie could answer - Molly laughed with him as she collected her bags. "No, I suppose not, if that's what you're used to. Thank you…" She squinted at his license, displayed clearly, "Mattias. You have a happy Christmas."

"You too!" he called back as Molly exited the cab, sinking into a slushy snowbank. The falling snow muffled the sounds of the usually busy neighbourhood. There were few vehicles on the road and fewer pedestrians on the sidewalk.

She paused for a moment of peace before entering into the unknown. For all she knew, Sherlock could be in the middle of an experiment ("I'm boiling a foot to see how long it takes before I can remove the skin!") or he could have retreated to his mind palace and forgotten entirely that they'd all agreed to meet at his flat. She closed her eyes and turned her face upwards, the snowflakes feeling like little kisses on her nose, cheeks, that patch of skin on her clavicle not covered by either her coat or her scarf…

"Eeep!" she squealed, straightening up and wiping the cold off her skin.

Taking a deep breath, Molly let herself in through the familiar black door - she'd long been past the point of knocking - kicking the snow off her boots. The small entrance looked like it had been decorated by Buddy from Elf. It was gaudy and overdone but she loved it, every garland, every bow, every snowman. She stopped halfway up the stairs to peek inside the doors of an antique advent calendar hanging on the wall, wondering if it had been Mrs. Hudson's when she was a child or if she'd simply picked it up at a sale.

She entered the flat at the top of the stairs and kicked her boots off, wrinkling her nose in distaste when the toes of her socks got wet from a puddle of melting snow. "Hello?" she called out, setting her bags on the kitchen table. "Sherlock?"

The kettle's piercing whistle made her jump and she walked over to pull it off the burner. "Greg texted me a few minutes ago," she called out towards the back of the flat. "He said he and Susan won't be able to make it because of the weather. He asked me to wish everyone a happy Christm…"

"Molly!" Sherlock exclaimed as he rushed into the kitchen from the hallway, his house coat billowing behind him like a cape. "You're…" He checked his watch, frowning. "Four minutes early. I was going to have tea ready for when you arrived."

"But how…" Molly pursed her lips, confused. "How did you know I finished early today?" _And how did you know I needed tea?_ she also wondered, spying the cannister of her favourite chocolate peppermint tea on the counter.

"Mike Stamford called. He tried reaching John first but got his voicemail so he tried me next. He was worried, said you'd worked on a particularly distressing case and he wanted to make sure you would be among lov…". He hesitated, appearing to reconsider his first choice of words. "Among friends."

He walked over to her, gently taking her coat, hat and scarf. "Sit. I'll get you your tea."

Molly stood in place, stunned, watching Sherlock as he disappeared to the back of his flat, her belongings in hand. Gone was the awkwardness that had developed between them, replaced instead with some bizarre niceness that seemed out of place with the detective. Out of place, maybe, but certainly not unwelcome - she really needed a friend right then and was grateful for Sherlock's attentiveness.

Taking a seat at the table, Molly quietly observed him as he returned to the kitchen and began to pour two cups of tea. The domesticity of the moment was comforting; it was nice, for once, having someone look after her needs. God knew she'd spent her life looking after everyone else's.

Sherlock brought the cups to the table, followed by the milk and sugar, and took the seat next to hers. "You'd think, after all these years, I'd know how you like your tea," he admitted contritely.

"If I recall, I was always the one fetching the drinks," she parried, teasing, trying to add a bit of levity to the moment.

The attempt fell flat and an awkward silence returned, looming over them as they each prepared their own tea. Molly let out a weary breath, stirring some milk into her cup. Once again, she thought back to the friendship they'd developed - she missed the bantering, the back and forth, the comfort they felt in each other's presence. _What happened?_ she sighed internally.

"What happened?"

Her head snapped up. Had Sherlock added mind reading to his repertoire of abilities? "Excuse me?" she asked, confused.

"What happened at work today that would have Stamford concerned enough to be calling your friends?"

Molly felt a quick flash of irritation at Sherlock for reminding her, for causing the images to flood back in, before she pushed it aside. _Not his fault,_ she chided herself. "There was an incident - a carbon monoxide leak. Two adults are in the hospital with critical injuries, but their children…" She put her cup down when it began to shake, spilling tea in its saucer. _Deep breath, Molls_. "But the children didn't survive. Four, all under the age of eight." She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of little bodies on her table, eyes open yet unseeing, chests still. "The youngest looked so much like Rosie…"

When she broke down, the grief finally consuming her, Sherlock was there, holding her, his presence solid and comforting. She cried for the parents and their heartbreak, she cried for the children and four futures lost, and she cried for herself and her own sadness and the duty that made her a part of their story.

Her tears eventually subsided and she pulled back, wiping at her cheeks self-consciously. "Thank you," she whispered, not confident enough yet to speak any louder without breaking down again.

Sherlock appeared ready to reply but the ping of his phone interrupted him. Frowning, he reached for the device and glanced at the message before quickly typing a response. "It's John. He and Mary decided not to risk the trip here - he says they're calling for the storm to intensify…"

"Intensify? Really?" Molly replied. She turned quickly towards the window, forgetting she'd picked her cup back up. Her sudden movement made the liquid slosh over the cup's edge, spilling warm tea down the front of her blouse. "Shit!" she exclaimed, spilling more of it in her surprise. At her wit's end, she stood up and set the cup back onto its saucer. "I'll be right back," she announced, rushing to the bathroom before she broke once again into tears.

In the bathroom, Molly removed her blouse while the sink filled with cold water. She held the delicate fabric up, her heart sinking at the sight of the large brown stain that now marred its front. She'd been so excited when she'd laid eyes on it at the vintage clothing store; it had been perfect for the Christmas party, a pretty 1940's blouse speckled with tiny candy canes.

In the water it went, soaking thoroughly. Molly could only hope the stain would come out and she'd still get a chance to wear it.

Not that it mattered anymore. Greg had bowed out, as had John and Mary. She hadn't seen nor heard Mrs. Hudson which meant she was likely staying safe somewhere else. There had been one other couple Mary had mentioned, but it had been over a crying Rosie so Molly hadn't caught their name - with the storm raging, they'd be unlikely to show up either. Which left it a very awkward party of two. Gripping the edges of the sink she looked and stared at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked tired, a worn out version of her usual self, and she wished once again she had the nerve to apologize and just head home to go hide under her gran's quilt until her sadness went away.

A gentle knock brought her back to the reality of here and now. At least the stain seemed to be lifting, she realized, scrubbing at it gently. "Yes?" she called out.

"Molly," Sherlock's voice called out quietly, "are you ok?"

 _No_. "Yes. It's just that…" _this day's been shit and I just want to hide away somewhere_ … She bit her lip, wondering if she were Dante, which level of Hell she'd be in. "It's just that I didn't bring a change of clothes."

"I know. If you need a shirt, I have one for you."

Of course he did, she thought bitterly. Because Sherlock had most likely deduced how the entire scenario was going to unfold before she'd even made it to the bathroom. Molly didn't have a choice, though - unless she wanted to stay locked up in the bathroom, which wasn't that bad of an idea, she pondered. _I could pour myself a bath, dunk my head underwater and disappear into my own little world…_

Instead, she opened the door a little and found herself facing an equally ill at ease consulting detective. His gaze settled on what little of her appeared from behind the door, starting at the curve of her shoulder and sliding downwards to her waist, before shooting back up to meet hers. A strong emotion flashed across his features until he caught himself and schooled his features back to neutral. "Here," he said. He handed her the shirt he'd been holding, spun on his heel and practically ran back towards the kitchen.

Molly closed the door and took a few steps backwards before letting herself rest against the tub's edge. _Desire_. Sherlock had looked at her with desire. And judging by his reaction, the emotion had caught him unawares, which made it all the more genuine. That minor slip of control steeled her resolve, reviving that faint hope which she'd always kept alive within her.

She stood back up, chin up, shoulders back, and found a new woman staring back at her in the mirror. "No more hiding," she said to herself, "no more lies." She reached for the shirt he'd handed her and did a double take. It was his purple shirt - _the_ purple shirt. The one that was too tight for him, where the fabric stretched taut across his chest in the most tantalizing, delectable way whenever he moved.

How on earth did he expect it to fit her, when she had breasts? "Oh fuck it," she muttered, slipping the shirt on and relishing the expensive fabric's feel against her skin. Inhaling, she realised it smelled like him - a mix of faint tobacco, that Burberry cologne that made her insides twist and, beneath it all, his own scent.

She started at the bottommost button, working her way up to her chest, where she had to pull the sides together tightly just to get the fabric to meet. It was pointless to even try to fasten the top two buttons, leaving her more exposed than she felt comfortable.

Molly rolled the sleeves up a few times then reached down into the cold water to pull the stopper from the sink. Gently, she squeezed the excess water from her blouse before hanging it up over the bathtub, managing to do so without soaking Sherlock's shirt in the process. She took one last look at her reflection, tamping down the jitters she felt at the sight of her bra cups peering over the edge of the taut fabric. _I guess this'll show him there's no problem with the size of my breasts,_ she mused wryly.

When she entered the kitchen, Molly found Sherlock sitting in the lounge in his usual chair, chin resting on tented fingers and eyes unfocused. _Mind palace_ , she thought to herself before walking over to the table to remove the tins of homemade cookies from one of the bags she'd been carrying. The other bag held some pretty Christmas napkins and platters she'd picked up at Poundland.

When she was done, the table was laid out in a spread worthy of a mention in Food & Wine magazine. There were shortbreads and cutout sugar cookies, lemon rolls and gingerbreads, mini mincemeat tarts and her favourites, fig jam jammie dodgers.

She was popping the last bite of a jammie dodger in her mouth when she noticed Sherlock standing at the edge of the kitchen, watching her; she'd been so busy with her cookies she hadn't even noticed him get up. A quick succession of emotions crossed his face, from desire to surprise to frustration, until something hard settled in his eyes.

"I see I should have gotten you one of John's old shirts - it would have better accommodated the four and a half pounds you've gained in the last few months," he said, his tone cold and dismissive.

His words, scalpel-sharp and expertly wielded, cut deep. Old insecurities resurfaced, ones that had caused her to stammer as if she'd never spoken to a man before, that had allowed him to push her around and manipulate her (she'd known, _known_ when he'd flirted with her just to get his way, but she'd allowed it because there had always been hope, no matter how faint).

But Molly had been ready for this. She pushed aside the butterflies and steeled herself for a conversation that was long overdue. Whether or not Sherlock wanted to admit - either to her or himself - that he was physically affected by her, they were still friends, and friends didn't cut each other down with cruel words.

"Stop it!" she admonished, severely enough for him to look at her in surprise. As he stared at her mutely, eyes guarded, his posture unusually stiff, the pieces fell together. Oh, how it all made sense now, all their interactions over the past few months, everything that had happened after that damned phone call. His hesitation to interrupt when she was busy, his new habit of asking - not demanding - her assistance, bringing her coffee when she worked late hours, his gaze or his touch lingering a fraction of a moment longer than it used to...

"Stop what?" he asked quietly, still challenging yet without the earlier malice in his voice.

Molly sighed and took a few steps closer to him. "Stop hurting people to avoid caring about them. None of us are going away, Sherlock. _I'm_ not going away, no matter what insults you throw my way, because…" And here, she took a gamble which could either get her what she'd been after for years - so close, so _tangible_ at that moment - or it could put it down for good and drive a nail through its coffin. "Because I know."

"What do you know?" He watched her, anxious, expectant, one hand in his pocket, the other fidgeting with the sash of his robe. His vulnerability, reminiscent of the many times she'd had to care for him, made it easier for her to push forward, to finally have this overdue conversation.

"That you love me. That what you told me, during that hellish phone call, was the truth. And I know it scares you, but it scares me too, and loving someone so much can be overwhelming and terrifying, but it's worth it - worth all those messy emotions to love someone and have your life be richer because of them." She took a deep, shaky breath, ignoring the thundering of her heart, and turned her gaze up to a point a few feet above his head to avoid meeting his eyes.

The room fell quiet after her gambit, the ticking of the clock and the muffled swoosh of cars driving through snow the only sound filling the space between them. Silence stretched, long enough for Molly to wonder whether Sherlock had heard her or if he'd retreated to the safety of his mind palace. She inhaled deeply, ready to say something, _anything_ , when he spoke up.

"You're right," he admitted. "I love you, Molly Hooper. And I _am_ afraid, but not why you think." His words came out in quick succession, a rush that spoke of a much-rehearsed speech finally freed from the confines of his mind. "I'm not afraid of love, or commitment - I'd like to think that you, John and Rosie have helped me overcome my irrational aversion to both. Really, not sure what I was thinking, there... But what frightens me is I don't believe I'm worthy of your love. That after everything I've put you through, I'm not sure you can still love me in that way." He pressed his lips together, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "It certainly would be ironic for me to be the one to carry on with an unrequited affection."

Molly stared at him, gobsmacked by his avowal. The weight of the moment wasn't lost on her, the knowledge that a relationship with Sherlock Holmes was now a distinct possibility. So much rested on her answer.

"I will never stop loving you 'in that way', Sherlock," she replied. She gave him a lopsided smile that matched his and added "I have a failed engagement to prove it."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Tom wasn't very bright, but he wasn't blind. I never looked at him the way I looked at you. It was there in subtle ways while you were away, but when you came back it became obvious. He called it off because he didn't see how we could move forward with your shadow over us." She took a step forward, taking his hand in hers. "Whether or not you're worthy of my love is a decision only _I_ can make, Sherlock. You may not see it, but you're a good man. In the time I've known you, you've gone from being a selfish, arrogant prick to a man who doesn't hesitate to throw himself between a bullet and his friend…"

"It was just a graze…"

"And Mary is still alive because of you. John still has a wife because of you, and Rosie still has her mum. Because of you. If you don't see your own worth, well, _I_ do." She stood up on the tips of her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and brought her face to within a hair's breadth of his. "And I think you're worthy of falling in love with, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered, borrowing his habit of using both her names, before pressing her lips to his.

The first sweep of Sherlock's mouth against hers was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he still wasn't certain he was allowed to kiss her - or maybe it had been so long since he'd kissed someone he'd forgotten how. Molly let him set the pace, their passion building gradually, stoking the fires of her desire. But she'd waited so long for this moment, years of wondering what his lips would feel like against her skin, whether he'd be cold or passionate, that she didn't want to rush it.

When she parted her lips to grant his tongue access, the moan he let out turned her legs to jelly. He tangled one hand through her hair, angling her head to deepen their kiss, while his other hand claimed a spot at her waist, gripping it possessively. If Sherlock had forgotten how to kiss a woman, he was certainly remembering - and then some.

For a brief moment - the last vestiges of her sanity, she was sure - Molly's mind went to a conversation she'd had with Mrs. Hudson after Rosie's baptism.

"They're wrong, you know," the elderly landlady had confided after a few glasses of Chardonnay. "All of them. It's not that Sherlock doesn't do sentiments - anyone who's been around him knows that - it's that he doesn't do them halfway. He's either addicted or _bored_ , running after cars or shooting the wall, annoying you or ignoring you. Maybe right now he isn't interested in girls, dear, but," she leaned in conspiratorially, "when he is, I'll wish I was thirty years younger."

Had she retained the capacity to think clearly, had Sherlock's mouth not been upon hers, insistent and hungry, had his fingers not left trails of fire in their wake as they mapped her curves, had he not been making _those_ noises at the back of his throat, Molly may have had enough wits about her to realize just how right Mrs Hudson had been about the consulting detective.

As it was, her brain was limited to repeating " _more_ " over and over again.

When she began to ache from standing on her toes, her arches burning, calves cramping, she let herself back down until her feet were flat on the ground. Sherlock followed her down, unwilling to break the kiss, but eventually he tired of their awkward position.

"You're too short," he grumbled impatiently. Molly's responding giggle turned into a squeal when she felt her feet leave the ground, Sherlock walking them both back to the kitchen.

"There. Much better," he said, setting her gently on the counter. He placed his hands on her knees, sliding them up her thighs, parting them, his stormy gaze locked on hers.

Molly got the hint and, hooking her legs around his narrow waist, pulled him closer until he was firmly nestled at the apex of her thighs. He began moving his hips, grinding himself against her in a deliciously wicked rhythm. His cock pressed right where she needed it, his shaking hands gripping her hips almost painfully; he leaned forward, his lips skating along the shell of her ear. " _God_ , I want to fuck you," he whispered hoarsely, his fingers working the buttons of the shirt she wore, popping them open one by one until it lay parted before him. He slipped his hand in and palmed her breast through her bra. "I want to sink my cock in you, hear you scream my name. You can't imagine how many times I've gotten myself off thinking of that…"

Over Sherlock's frantic, obscene confessions and the rush of her own pulse in her ears, Molly registered what sounded like someone clearing their throat. Peering in the direction of the noise, she let out a surprised yelp at the sight of an older couple standing just inside the entrance to the flat.

Clutching the edges of her top together, Molly self-consciously slipped off the counter and landed on the floor with a soft thud. She answered Sherlock's confused glance with a nod towards his guests.

He turned around and went very still, standing straighter. "Mum? Dad? What are you doing here?"

The amusement on his mother's face faltered. Pursing her lips she replied "Well, you invited us for dinner. Are we no longer welcome?"

This seemed to jostle his mind back into place. "Mary invited you," he corrected not unkindly. "And of course you're still welcome." He stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek and help her with the many bags she held. "Everyone else cancelled because of the snow. I didn't expect anyone to show up."

The quick look his mum sent Molly said ' _obviously you didn't_ ', but she thankfully kept the comment to herself. "Sherlock, this is the first time we've ever been invited to your home for a social gathering. A little bit of snow wasn't going to stop us."

"A little bit? There must be four inches of snow out there by now."

"The Rover has four-wheel drive," his dad chimed in, toeing his boots off and stepping further in. He took his wife's coat from her, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "Anyway, I've driven in Colorado. Now, _that's_ snow."

Molly couldn't help but stare at the older couple. They seemed so… _normal_ \- not at all what she'd imagined Sherlock's and Mycroft's parents would be like (no matter what Mary had told her). She would have expected them to be eccentric, pretentious, aloof - not so _nice_. Her thoughts were interrupted by a chill that came in from the still partially open door and she remembered her state of undress. Mortified, she muttered "I'm going to…" _look for a hole to swallow me up_ "...freshen up" before escaping to the bathroom.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned back and let its cool, hard surface ground her before walking over to the mirror. She looked thoroughly snogged: flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, swollen lips, her hair swept over her shoulder in a tangled mess. Her nerves hummed with residual energy, the memory of Sherlock's touch still burnt into her skin. Not in her wildest fantasies had she ever expected him to harbour such passion. When she realized her hands were still shaking she took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. "Oh, who am I kidding?" she moaned out loud, letting it sink in that if it wasn't for the interruption, she would've had Wild Kitchen Sex with Sherlock Holmes.

In any other circumstance, she'd be dancing with glee but Sherlock's parents' arrival had acted like a bucket of ice water.

She checked on her blouse, disappointed when it was still too damp to wear. _At least the stain seems to have come out_ , she told herself, trying to look at the bright side. Turning the tap on cold, she reached for a cloth to cool herself off and try and minimize her flush. It would be easier to face his parents again if she didn't look as ravaged as she felt. _At least I know who the other couple is, now,_ she thought wryly.

A knock at the door made her jump. "Just a moment," she called out, hurrying up to wipe the counter.

"It's me," she heard Sherlock say, his voice quiet. Relieved, Molly leaned over and unlocked the door, stepping back to allow him into the bathroom's tight quarters.

"How are you?" he asked,closing the door behind him.

He handed her a t-shirt, which she gladly accepted. She removed the button-up and pulled the t-shirt over her head, her lack of clothing less embarrassing than it would have been an hour prior. "Thanks - this is _much_ better. And I'm fine," she added, answering his question. "A touch embarrassed, maybe." She turned to face him, picking the cloth back up and twisting it in her hands. "What must your parents think of me after an introduction like _that_?"

Sherlock pried the cloth from her hands, tossing it into the tub where it landed with a wet thump. He reached out and gathered her into the fold of his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. "They haven't said anything, but I can only imagine they're both elated to find out I'm normal, for starters. And they're going to love you partly because I love you, but mainly because you love me - and everyone knows that's not an easy task."

"It's an easier task than you think," Molly replied quietly, basking in the warmth and growing familiarity of his embrace. "Now that you let us love you."

They shared a chaste kiss which nevertheless set the butterflies in her stomach aflutter - Molly didn't think _that_ would stop happening anytime soon - before reluctantly pulling apart.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ready to meet my parents?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Molly replied. She was about to open the door when Sherlock placed his hand flat on its solid wooden surface, preventing her from leaving.

"Hold on," he said, turning her so she was facing the mirror. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pointed to two small purple bruises forming on her neck. "Not sure if you're going to want to cover those up," he commented.

Molly shrugged and reached for the door. "After what your parents walked in on, I doubt a few love bites are going to make much of a difference."

"No, I suppose not," he replied, following her into the hallway. The gentle weight of his hand at her back gave her the strength to walk into the kitchen to meet his parents.

His mother had already commandeered the small room, with pots heating up on the stove and her husband peeling potatoes at the counter. Molly felt her cheeks redden at the thought of what had almost happened there.

"Mum, Dad, this is Molly," Sherlock announced.

Mrs Holmes wiped her hands on her apron - a bright, festive creation with gingerbread men and a candy cane ruffle at the hem - and approached Molly, wrapping her up in a motherly hug. "I'm so sorry for earlier," she said, pulling back and looking at her earnestly. "We should have knocked before entering."

"It's alright - you had no way of knowing you needed to knock."

The older woman turned towards her son, a wry look on her face. "True. We've never had a reason to be cautious."

"Unless you count the times we walked in on him when he was starkers," Mr Holmes chimed in cheekily, winking at Molly over his shoulder.

"That was _once_!" Sherlock argued, incensed. He sat down at the table with a huff and took his phone out, reading what appeared to be a text. "Ugh," he mumbled under his breath, "that's a 4 at best. _Obviously_ she poisoned him by adding holly berries from their garland into the cranberry sauce…"

"Twice, dear," his mother added, returning to the stove to reduce the heat on a now-boiling pot. "Remember when we dropped by on our way back from aunt Dorothea's?"

Sherlock was focused on his phone, typing madly, but that didn't stop him from taking the bait.

"That doesn't count. I'd just had a bath."

Her own attention on her cooking, Mrs Holmes replied "You were in the kitchen making yourself a cup of tea!"

Molly watched them banter back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match until she felt a presence beside her.

"She's the only one who can keep up - or put up - with arguing with him," Sherlock's father said, keeping his voice sotto voce to keep from disturbing them. "The funniest thing is, they're both engrossed in whatever they're doing and unless you're paying attention to what they're saying, you'd never even know they were talking to each other."

Molly chuckled. "It certainly is dizzying. Are they always like this?"

"Mostly, yes. Although things have been more tense since…" He paused, his gaze seeking out his wife, a pained expression crossing his face.

"Since you found out about Eurus?"

Mr Holmes seemed relieved Molly was in on the secret, and his posture relaxed a little. "Yes. Since Eurus came back into our lives." He smiled. "It's good to have her back, but we have a tough road ahead. We believed she was dead for so many years, and then what she did to Sherlock and Mycroft…. There's just so much uncertainty."

"You're an amazing family. You'll weather this storm and all come out stronger - you'll see," she told him, firmly believing in the truth of her words. The Holmes family _was_ strong - they'd been through so much: Eurus, Sherlock's addiction, Sherlock's feigned death and subsequent mission, Mycroft's… just being Mycroft. No matter how crazy things got, the glue that held them together remained as strong as ever.

The argument between Sherlock and his mother had died down, and both were entirely focused on what was in front of them. Molly wondered at just how similar in character the consulting detective was to his mother. Having witnessed their exchange, she now had a better understanding as to where he got his headstrong and argumentative nature. Her attention then returned to his father and the pile of potatoes still left to peel.

She walked over to Sherlock and nudged him with her knee to get his attention. He lifted his head in surprise - she wouldn't have put it past him to forget he wasn't alone - and pursed his lips impatiently. "What?"

"Why don't you go help your father with the potatoes?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"What… why?" he replied, honestly perplexed.

"Because it would be _helpful_."

"I don't do ' _helpful'_ ," he retorted, dismissing her and returning his attention to his phone.

Upset, more for his parents than herself (she was accustomed to his flippant attitude by now), Molly grabbed his phone, powered it off and held it out of reach. "Potatoes," she repeated flatly, nodding in his father's direction.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth as if to say something. Molly held her ground, returning his gaze with a steely one of her own.

Finally, he let out an indignant huff and stood up, walking to where his father was waiting expectantly with a second peeler.

Turning towards Mrs Holmes, who'd been watching the exchange with an amused smirk on her lips, Molly started rolling up her sleeves. "So, what can I do to help?"

* * *

"Are you done embarrassing me?" Sherlock reached for the bottle of wine, offering some to his parents before topping up his and Molly's glasses.

"Oh, with everything you've put me through over the past few years," his mother retorted, "baby stories are just the tip of the iceberg." She took another sip of her wine, closing her eyes and smiling. "You always did have impeccable taste in wine, son."

"It _is_ good, isn't it?" he agreed. "But I'm afraid I can't take credit for this bottle. It was given to me about a year ago by a client, a Mrs Puddlecombe, for services rendered."

 _Puddlecombe_ … The name seemed familiar to Molly, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Finally, the image of a woman, bent with age, her face etched with worry, came to mind. "The gnome woman!" she blurted out, surprising her table mates.

"The what woman?" Mr Holmes asked, his face scrunched up in amused confusion.

"A client," Sherlock clarified. "I agreed to take the case as a favour to Lestrade - she'd been a close friend of his mother's. She was concerned someone had been releasing a hallucinogenic gas in her home because she'd seen a few of her garden gnomes walking out of her yard." He took another sip of the wine, closing his eyes and appreciating. "Poor taste in garden decorations, great taste in wine, however."

A comfortable silence fell on the table, each person lost in their own thoughts. Molly stifled a tryptophan-induced yawn. She'd eaten more in one sitting than she had in a long time, filling up on turkey, stuffing, roasted veggies and cranberry sauce. To save on time, Mrs Holmes had cooked the turkey the day before and had cut it up so it only needed to be reheated at Sherlock's. That had left her with more time to show Molly how to make her stuffing and cranberry sauce recipes. The younger woman had been an eager apprentice, happy to finally learn the key to making a stuffing outside the bird.

Sherlock's mother broke the quiet with an impatient sigh. "Well? Was it hallucinogenic gas or something else?"

Molly hid a smile behind her wine glass. _Yep. Sherlock's mum all right._

"I'll have to leave the storytelling to Molly - after all, she's the one who cracked the case." Sherlock cast an anything-but-innocent look in her direction, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"Really?" Mrs. Holmes turned towards her, looking impressed.

Molly fought the urge to kick Sherlock under the table for redirecting his mum's attention her way. She took a fortifying sip of wine - Mrs. Holmes had been right, the wine _was_ delicious - and sat up straighter. "There really wasn't much to it," she began, playing down her role in the story. "I was simply keeping Mrs. Puddlecombe company while Sherlock investigated. She'd brought out tea and biscuits and we were chatting when she mentioned that the gnomes had been walking very slowly and unevenly - this gave me an idea, so I texted Sherlock, asking him if there were any turtles in the garden." She shrugged, sharing a smile with Sherlock. "Ended up I was right. The poor woman had set her gnomes on turtles, thinking they were stones - she has terrible eyesight - and when the turtles walked away, off went the gnomes, too. I've no idea how they managed to stay on as long as they did, though."

"Must've been hanging on for dear life," Mr. Holmes joked, reaching for a third helping of Molly's lemon rolls.

"Quite," Sherlock concurred around a bite of shortbread. "I found the lot of them behind her hedgerow, all toppled over but no worse for wear. Molly offered to place them back in the yard, albeit out of the path of travelling reptiles, this time."

"Do you always assist Sherlock in his investigations?" Mrs Holmes asked.

"Oh, no, not often. I only fill in if John isn't available. Between balancing his family and the clinic, he's already very busy - I'm happy to step in when he can't make it but I don't really do much," Molly explained. She looked over at Sherlock and found him staring at her, an odd look on his face. He seemed… confused? Upset, even?

"What?" she asked him.

"Why do you always think you don't count?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It almost seemed as if he was posing the question to himself. A bit louder, he continued. "In the field or in the lab… you've always been essential to my success, Molly. I've said it before - you're the best in your field. But you count most for reasons beyond that - for really seeing me when no one else was looking, for being angry at me on my behalf when I was using, for not putting up with my shit - not even a few hours ago, and for teaching me that sentiment isn't a chemical defect but rather what gives quality to our lives."

Molly stared at him mutely, her heart pounding in her chest - what on earth could she say in the wake of such a statement? Sherlock had just taken every one of her romantic fantasies and put them to shame.

Noticing the shift in the mood, Mr. Holmes pushed his chair back and turned to his wife. "Well, Mum? It's going to be a long drive home - we should think about heading out."

"Yes, otherwise we'll have to stop at Mikey's and you know how grumpy he gets if we show up too late." Mrs. Holmes stood up and began gathering the dishes. "Sherlock, thank you for the lovely evening - it's exceeded my every expectation. And Molly, I'm so happy we got to meet you. You're a wonderful young woman and I'm glad to see Sherlock seems to know just how lucky he is to have you." She turned back to her son, her lips pressed into a tight line. "Just make sure you don't forget that, young man."

"I won't," he affirmed, standing up and taking the dishes from her hands. "And don't worry about cleaning up the last of the dishes - Molly and I can manage them on our own."

When Mrs Holmes didn't argue, Molly knew the older couple was surely giving them the privacy they needed. While Sherlock helped them with their coats and bags Molly rushed to put together a tray of cookies for them to take away, making sure to add extra lemon rolls for Mr. Holmes who seemed taken with them.

"I insist," she said when they politely declined. "I've eaten so many of them already, they'd just get thrown out anyways."

"Hold on!" Sherlock protested, watching the platter of sweets pass over to his father. "I haven't even tried one of the lemon… Ouch!" He pulled his hand back from where he'd been reaching out, feeling the sting of Molly's slap.

"Be nice," she reminded him. "You have me, and I can make more. Unless you insist on acting like a prat, in which case I'll hand over the rest of the shortbreads, too."

He looked like he was about to protest, but Sherlock thought better and held his tongue, deciding instead to help his mother with her coat. "Thanks for dinner, Mum," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "It was delicious as always."

Molly followed him, exchanging hugs and kisses as well as happy Christmases. The affection the Holmses offered freely was refreshing. It had been so long since Molly had had anything resembling a maternal hug that she was reluctant to let go of Mrs. Holmes. The other woman must have sensed this, as she made a promise to stay in touch to have Molly teach her how to knit.

Sherlock walked over to the window after his parents had left, watching them make their way to their car. He waved and Molly heard a honk outside - most likely his parents as they pulled away. She turned back to assess the state of the kitchen; it wasn't the unholy mess it could have been thanks to Mrs. Holmes's almost fanatical adherence to the "clean as you go" philosophy. Almost every pot, pan and serving dish had been washed and put away (or taken back with her), the dinner plates and utensils were drying in the dish rack and all that were left out were the dessert plates and wine glasses. Leftovers had been wrapped up and placed in the fridge - Molly figured Sherlock had at least three days' worth of turkey to go through on top of the veggies and potatoes. _Maybe I should come by and make him a turkey pie_ , she thought. The suggestion would give her an excuse to visit again.

"Do you want to wash or dry?" she called out, gathering all the dishes onto one end of the table. "I don't have a prefer…. Oh!"

Strong arms circled her from behind, making her jump. "Dishes weren't really what I had in mind," Sherlock whispered against the back of her neck, his lips skating along her skin.

Molly smiled, leaning back into him, feeling her pulse quicken. "No? What did you have in mind?" she asked playfully.

"You… me…" he said, the deep baritone of his voice turning her insides to mush. He seemed unwilling or unable to finish his thought, his mouth and hands too busy exploring her from behind.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm having a hard time understanding what you're trying to tell me," she teased, her voice coming out huskier than she'd expected. She turned around, wanting to see him, to see the desire she felt for him reflected in his eyes. "You'll have to state your intentions more clearly."

He stared back at her nonplussed, confusion apparent by the crease between his eyes. Molly waited, letting him work it out on his own, her fingers playing with the belt loops on his trousers, tugging at the soft fabric. Finally, his face cleared as understanding dawned, his lips pulling up into a smile that matched hers. The sight caused Molly's heart to feel lighter than it had in ages, and she allowed a bubbling happiness to replace the stress and sadness that had been so prevalent in her life those past few months. After Sherrinford, John had retreated within himself, causing a double-fold effect on Molly: she'd lost the everyday companionship of Mary, whose focus was now on her husband, and she'd gained more of Sherlock's attention since he no longer had John to keep him busy. The new awkwardness of their relationship had left her feeling ill at ease every time he joined her in the lab, sitting apart from her, quiet and introspective.

"I want you," he stated plainly. "I don't care if you want to call it sex or fucking or making love, and I care even less if it's in my bed or against that wall or on this very table." He placed his hands on the table's edge at each side of her, giving it a good push as if to test its solidity. When it didn't budge he cocked an eyebrow, a glint in his eye suggesting they give it a try.

Molly laughed at the absurdity of the moment. "Although the thought of being ravaged beside a platter of jammie dodgers is tempting," she teased, "why don't we move to the bedroom?" She dragged a finger down the centre of his shirt, circling each button as she came across them. Sherlock's nervous energy left him twitching beneath her touch, his breathing uneven. "Anyway, I haven't seen your bedroom yet. I've always been curious…"

"Have you?" The question came out rough, as if he hadn't used his voice in months. His hands, held at her waist, gripped her tightly.

Had she been the vindictive type, the kind of person who could think ' _Let him suffer for all the years of unrequited love, all the times he used my affection to his advantage, every time he mocked sentiment_ ', Molly could have stretched the game out, played it until he was begging her - Sherlock Holmes begging Molly Hooper, imagine that! - but that wasn't who she was. Wasn't what she did.

Molly nodded. "I have," she confirmed. "Are the doors locked?" When he nodded she took his hand in hers and took a step to the side, towards the back of the flat. "Then show me."

When they entered his room, Sherlock walked to the far side of his bed to turn his bedside lamp on. A soft light allowed her to finally see what she'd only ever imagined. It was nothing like what she'd anticipated yet not surprising at all; there were no tables of experiments, no walls of photos with string and thumbtacks, no clothing strewn across the floor. What Molly hadn't considered was despite the consulting detective's disdain for physical necessities such as sleep or his purported lack of sentimentality, his bedroom was warm, welcoming, and decorated with personal touches.

"What's that picture above the bed?" she asked, pointing to the framed image with Japanese writing.

Sherlock finished turning down the blankets on the bed before walking over to stand beside her. "It's not a picture - it's a judo certificate," he corrected.

Molly turned toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. She'd heard from Greg and John that Sherlock was good in a tussle - "Wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him," the DI had once confided after Sherlock had helped apprehend an uncooperative suspect - but she'd never quite imagined he had the attention span or focus to follow through with actual lessons of any kind, never mind judo. "I'm going to guess you don't get one of those after your first belt."

"Hmm, _no_ ," he answered, unbuttoning his cuffs.

Smiling, Molly reached up and began to unfasten his shirt buttons, working her way top to bottom. "I guess I know who'd win a wrestling match for the blankets, then."

Sherlock chuckled, his hands moving to her hips. He slid her t-shirt up, tickling the skin above the waistband of her trousers, making her squirm. "You wouldn't stand a chance."

"I swing a pretty mean pillow, though." Molly leaned in, tracing his clavicle with her tongue, moving lower to pepper kisses across his chest, the sparse hairs tickling her nose. A battle waged within her, the need to have Sherlock _now_ fighting the desire to take it slow, make this moment last forever. Slow and steady won out - barely - and Molly forced herself to reduce the urgency of her movements. She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the play of lean muscles beneath his skin, and pushed his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms until it fell in a pile at his feet.

Warm hands mirrored hers, hesitant at first but then with more confidence, sliding up her sides and gathering the soft fabric of her t-shirt as they went. Sherlock pulled the garment over her head and tossed it haphazardly somewhere behind him. When he leaned forward, his slightly parted lips grazing hers, the shaky breath he exhaled revealed that he, too, was barely restraining himself.

Despite the heat pooling inside her, the icy tendrils of a cold breeze made her shiver. "Have I mentioned that it's cold in your flat?" she said, rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms.

"I know for a fact the bed's warm," he countered, deadpan.

"Mmm…" she hummed, pretending to consider the suggestion. When another draft washed over her, she quickly unbuttoned her trousers and let them drop before hopping in bed. Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she looked up at the consulting detective, offering him an impish smile over the edge of the duvet.

Sherlock smiled, the warmth in his expression causing her heart to flutter. Soon, his trousers joined hers on the floor and he slid in beside her, leaning forward to place a kiss at the tip of her nose. "Warmer yet?" he asked, his fingers dancing along the lace edging of her underpants.

"Definitely getting there," Molly admitted, draping a leg over his hip and pulling herself flush against him. His skin was warm to her touch and she allowed her hands to wander where they could reach, mapping his body, noting hollows and curves and moles and scars. Caving in to her desire to taste him again, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Unlike their first embrace, this one was gentle and patient, their movements deliberate. Sherlock's breath fanned against her cheek, her throat, her clavicle, as his mouth made a meandering descent towards her breasts. Behind her, typically nimble fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra.

"Damn it," he grumbled, giving up. "Can you _please_ do me the honour?" he begged, obviously flustered.

If she hadn't been so damned horny, Molly would have laughed at the situation. Instead she performed an act of contortionism, managing to somehow reach behind her and release the clasp with her one free arm, sliding out of the bra and handing it to Sherlock, who tossed it over his shoulder. "Finally," he muttered, his lips ghosting down the swell of her right breast. A twist of his hips silently prompted her to shift onto her back, giving him more room to manoeuvre, to lay between her thighs and press down in the same rhythm as his mouth.

" _Oh Sherlock_ ," Molly exhaled, meeting his thrusts, the pressure inside her building despite the fact they were still both wearing their underpants. One hand twisted through his curls, holding him at her breasts, and the other gripped his shoulder tightly. She writhed beneath him, needing _more_ , more of Sherlock's mouth, more of his fingers, and more pressure at the apex of her thighs.

Her climax hit suddenly, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her. Molly gasped, her body arching off the bed and firmly against Sherlock, her fingers clinging to him to ground herself - or maybe it was to make sure he was real, that this was really happening.

When she opened her eyes again, working on catching her breath, she found Sherlock staring at her intently. "Did you just…" he asked, his blue eyes wide with wonder.

"Yeah," she replied, smiling up at him. She felt giddy, electrified, like it was her first time - and it sort of was, in a way, a first time. First time with Sherlock, a moment dreamt of and fantasized about for years, and here they were, fooling around in his bed in their underpants like a pair of teenagers. Not exactly how she'd envisioned it, but it was even better because it was unconventional like them.

His response was to kiss her, passionately and thoroughly, his mouth slanted against hers, tongue seeking entry past her lips, his body taut as a bowstring above her. His left hand flew desperately to the waistband of her pants, pushing them down as far as he could reach without breaking their embrace. "Knickers off, _now,_ " he growled, finally pulling back and fighting to remove his own.

Molly acquiesced, wriggling to kick hers off without kneeing him in the groin. When he covered her body with his again, she reached down between them and took him in hand. His cock was hard - _For me_ , she reminded herself silently, feeling a warmth not entirely related to sex settle within her - and he let out a low groan when she began to pump her first experimentally.

" _Molly_ ," he begged, his voice rough. His arms shook at her sides and he leaned forward, resting his forehead at the crook of her shoulder, his hips moving slowly into her grasp. " _Please_."

That one word was all Molly needed to take the final step, placing him at her entrance. She let out a soft exhale when he pushed forward and they were finally joined.

He groaned, stilling his movements, his breathing laboured against her skin. "Molly, love, why haven't we been doing this for years?"

Molly hid a smile against his ear, beaming at the term of endearment. "Because you're an idiot?"

" _Obviously_ ," he replied, and although she couldn't see his face she knew he was rolling his eyes. He began to move, slow, measured strokes serving only to rekindle the fire in Molly's belly. She waited until he'd set the pace before meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper inside her, matching his unhurried rhythm.

Sherlock rose up on his forearms, leaning in to place kisses along Molly's neck, her clavicle, the swell of her breasts - wherever he could reach - before moving back to her mouth. The embrace became more desperate when Molly raked her nails up his back, spurring him on.

"Are you close?" he broke away to ask, his gaze unfocused.

"God, yes," she replied, feeling a slow and steady tightness building deep inside her. "Just don't slow down," she begged him, moaning as he wrapped an arm just below her waist, tilting her pelvis and changing the angle of his thrusts. His mouth skated over her skin, branding it with avowals of profane fantasies; the words, rushed and desperate and _dirty_ , were what finally pushed her over the edge.

Sherlock followed right behind, holding her tight as the aftershocks of his release coursed through him. "I love you," he whispered quietly against the shell of her ear, as if the words would somehow lose their power if spoken out loud.

"I love you too," Molly affirmed, holding him close to her while she caught her breath. The tattoo of his heartbeat thumped against her chest, a tempo echoed at the junction where they were still intimately connected.

Sherlock made no noticeable effort to extract himself from the circle of her arms. Likewise, Molly didn't push him away, content to hold him close to her, carding her fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

It was in between lazy kisses - the kind you could get lost in for hours - that Molly came to a realization.

"Sherlock?" she asked.

"Mmm?"

"Are you still, um, hard?" She squeezed her internal muscles to ensure there was no question as to what she meant.

"Mmm- _hmm_ ," he confirmed, moving his hips slightly into the tighter grip.

"Um," she started, not quite sure how to ask whether he'd taken something. As far as she could remember, she'd never had this happen (well, not as an adult, anyway). It was always sex, a bit of snuggling if she was lucky, then straight to snoring.

Sherlock seemed to understand the unasked question. "Molly, I haven't had sex in over four years, and I've been fantasizing about this for months." He moved experimentally, slow, short thrusts, groaning against her neck. "Are _you_ ok with more?"

Molly suppressed a maniacal giggle; the situation seeming almost absurd. Sherlock Holmes, asking her if she wanted a second go. _Maybe I fell and bumped my head_ , she wondered, _and this is all some intricate dream._ She looked up and found him staring back at her, his gaze warm but unsure. Vulnerability was never a quality she ascribed to Sherlock in her fantasies. _Not a dream, then_ , she decided.

"On one condition," she replied, throwing him a mischievous grin. "I get to be on top."

* * *

Molly woke gradually from a deep sleep, feeling more rested than she had in ages. Stretching, she opened one eye and frowned at her surroundings. _Why is the window on the wrong side of the room?_ Then she opened her other eye, blinking the sleep away. _And since when do I have a framed periodic table on my wall?_

When she finally remembered where she was, she fell back against her pillow with a dreamy sigh, the previous night's activities playing through her mind in tantalizing detail. Surrounded by his scent, she inhaled deeply and felt her pulse quicken at the memory of what they'd shared. Sherlock had been passionate yet playful, surprising her more than once with his openness to explore and try new things.

Molly shifted, rolling from her back to her side, nestling snugly into the duvet, tempted into a day of idleness by its warmth and softness. As much as she wanted to laze about, though, the need to pee was stronger; reluctantly she sat up, stretching the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. The cold air of the room met her bare flesh, causing her to erupt in goosebumps. "Eep!" she squeaked, pulling the covers back up to her neck; there was no way she'd complain ever again about the temperature in her flat.

To her great relief, Sherlock had left her a new t-shirt, slippers and his warmest dressing gown draped across the foot of the bed. Molly slipped them on before turning to look at the alarm clock. She gasped when she saw that the time was 10:22am. When was the last time she'd slept in so late? _Better yet, when was the last time I went three rounds and didn't fall asleep 'til after three in the morning?_

She slipped off the edge of the bed and padded over to the window, a child-like eagerness driving her to witness the magic of a white Christmas.

Her heart sank at the sight of a rainy London, a miserable drizzle having reduced the snow to nothing but a few patches of white here and there. "So close…" she muttered gloomily, shuffling away towards the door that led to the bathroom, her too-big slippers scraping against the wooden floor.

Ten minutes later Molly emerged from the bathroom adequately refreshed, having swished some toothpaste around her mouth (as much as she loved Sherlock, there was a hard stop at sharing toothbrushes) and dragged a brush through her hair (sharing a hairbrush, when it was of better quality than her own, was a definite go). As she approached the kitchen, she could hear Sherlock grumbling and cursing under his breath.

"Oh, thank _god_!" he cried dramatically upon seeing her. He waved his arms, his robe flapping around him. "Where does all of this go?"

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, every single cupboard door open. The remainder of last night's dishes, washed and dried, were stacked on top of the table and he was now attempting to put them back in their places. Biting back a smile - he'd tried, he really had, and she had to recognize his effort - Molly calmly walked over and began sorting through the collection of dishes. She put a roasting pan and a Yorkshire pudding tin to one side of the table - "These are your mother's - we'll put those aside for now" - and then nested two Pyrex dishes one inside the other, laying their lids on top of them - "These are Mrs Hudson's; we can bring them down to her flat later…"

"When did you get those?" he asked, his brow creased in confusion.

"During one of your arguments with your mother," she replied, placing a stack of dessert plates in their rightful cupboard.

He huffed, leaning back against the counter haughtily. "I didn't argue with my mother."

At Molly's flat stare he recanted. "Fine. I may have argued once. Maybe twice…"

"These were in the cupboard at the end," she said, handing him small bowls that matched the dessert plates. _Leave it to Sherlock to own a complete set of Royal Albert tableware and not know it_ , she mused sourly, thinking of her own mismatched dishes. She took the last two items - two cookie sheets - "And these go in the warming tray above the oven. Oh, what's this?" When she pulled the tray open, Molly found two plates with eggs, toast and bacon. "Did you make breakfast?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, taking the two plates so she could put the sheets in. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for the last half hour."

"You could have woken me up." She gathered forks and knives and followed him to the table wondering, now that it was obvious, how she'd missed the smell of bacon.

Concentrating on cutting his toast into soldiers, Sherlock shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "You looked peaceful - I didn't want to disturb you."

Molly leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you - I needed the extra sleep, after last night…" she added, smiling playfully behind a bite of toast.

Sherlock stared at her, a bite of egg halfway to his mouth, before placing his fork back down. "Let's forget breakfast," he said, standing up and pushing his chair away. "I'd wager the bed is still warm."

Molly laughed, playfully avoiding his grasp when he reached for her. "Whoa, there," she said between giggles. "If you plan on ravaging me nonstop, I'm going to need to keep up my energy. Anyway, you've gone to the trouble of making breakfast - we might as well eat it."

Sherlock capitulated - perhaps a bit because she was right, and a bit because he was hungry, too - digging into his breakfast with renewed gusto. When they were done he cleared off the table while Molly watched him, speechless. Wasn't this the same man who, just the night before, claimed not to "do helpful"? He dumped the dishes into the sink and disappeared into the back of the flat, coming back out a few moments later with something in his hand.

Molly followed him to the lounge, where he handed her the object awkwardly before falling back into his chair.

"A gift? she asked, sitting across Sherlock's lap, nestling into his side. "But I haven't gotten you anything," she said, examining the small carefully-wrapped box and turning it around in her hands. The paper looked expensive, almost hand-printed, and wasn't Christmas themed; whatever was inside it was neither light nor heavy, having just enough weight to have a solid presence in her palm.

"Of course you have," he replied, turning his attention from the small parcel to her face. He looked at her in earnest. "Molly, you've given me the greatest gift of all: you've taught me to love. You've shown me that the quality of my life is infinitely greater with friends, with people whom I love." He offered her a contrite smile. "I feel a bit like old Ebenezer, to be honest."

"Well, you did come pretty close to saying humbug a few times," Molly teased him, laughing when the hand at her side squeezed, tickling her lightly.

"Open it," he pressed, nodding towards the gift.

Very carefully, so as not to tear the pretty paper, Molly unwrapped the present. Underneath was a small box, white with colourfully painted embossed butterflies, that looked as handmade as its wrapping. She lifted the lid and pulled out something wrapped in light blue tissue paper.

When she finally revealed the item, her breath caught in her throat. "Oh, my," she gasped, examining the tiny hand-painted figurine of a kitten on its back playing with a butterfly. "He's beautiful!" Never having seen anything like it, she turned the kitten over and looked underneath, finding only a hand-written _D. Novotny_.

"Is this handmade?" she asked, holding it with even more care than before. .

Sherlock nodded. "I saw it in a shop window when I was in Prague and it reminded me of you, so I bought it."

Molly frowned, trying to remember the last time the consulting detective had travelled abroad. "But when were you in Prague?"

For some reason Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with the question and paused, appearing to consider his answer. "When I was taking down Moriarty's network."

"Sherlock, that was over two years ago. You held onto it for that long?" Molly's pulse quickened when he returned her gaze, the weight of his stare heavy with meaning. Surely he couldn't have felt anything for her that long ago, could he?

"My intention was to give it to you when I returned but…" he pressed his lips together in a rueful smile and shrugged. "You were engaged, and it didn't seem appropriate. After that, things kept getting in the way - drugs, getting shot, the Culverton Smith affair, lots more drugs, Eurus… This has really been the best opportunity I've had to give it to you." He paused, dead serious. "Do you like it?"

Instead of answering, Molly gently wrapped the figurine back into its box, stood up and walked over to the desk where she carefully set it down. When she returned to Sherlock she placed one knee on either side of his thighs, straddling him.

"I love it," she declared, locking gazes with him to make sure he knew the depth of the truth of her words. "And I love you so, so very much, Sherlock."

She leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his, melting against him as he wrapped his arms around her to hold her tight. The kiss was slow, sensual, unhurried - nothing like the desperate, needy kisses they'd shared the night before.

When the embrace ended, Sherlock slid his hands to the front of her robe, sliding his fingers down the front edging. "I don't think you were being honest with me earlier," he said, his gaze twinkling with mischief.

"How so?" Molly couldn't help but take the bait.

"That you didn't have a present for me." He tugged at the robe's belt, raising one eyebrow. "I do believe you have something for me to unwrap after all."

"Hmm…" Molly teased. "Maybe I do. I think you should unwrap it in the bedroom, though - it might get a bit messy."

As Sherlock carried her to the bedroom, the look in his eyes telling her that, at that moment, nothing in the world mattered but her, Molly's heart swelled with joy.

They were on the cusp of a new beginning, and it was all at once wonderful and scary and exciting and a bit overwhelming but Molly wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said as he gently lowered her to the bed.

And it was a very Merry Christmas indeed, many times over.


End file.
